Page 124 of The Kiss of Deception

Apparently, I don’t know how to throw a punch that injures only the recipient. I would try again, but Leonard seems to have finally decided to make his presence known, stepping out of the shadow of his soon-to-be-dead boss to grab my arm. Taller than Charles, he manages to stop the swing. Though, not as big as me, he stutters back showing me his palms as I shove him away.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” I roar, flexing my fist, not because the pain is too much, but because it's not enough.

My house.

My house that isn't a home without Zoe.

Our home is the heart of the life we've been building together these past few weeks, through arguments and disagreements, through sheer happiness and willpower—and Zoe is the heart of this house, breathing life into its walls, setting the pulse with her laughter.

I spent years chasing a dream, a flicker of fiction—the perfect life. It wasn’t until her that I realized everything I could ever dream paled in comparison, and all those dreams meant nothing if she were not by my side as I accomplished them. If she were not the one accomplishing them with me.

These past few weeks, I got everything I wanted—and more. They were the happiest days of my life—bumps on the road, struggles, fights and all.

Getting to learn every dot and every stitch that composes the fabric of Zoe Beatrice Westwood’s soul has been the most exquisite experience of my entire life. I never want to stop.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I need to think.

I can’t think when she isn’t around.

I don’t even realize I'm in the kitchen until I'm planting my hands on the countertop, on the very spot I sit her every morning so I can steal a little bit of her warmth as I cook and she eats. My head bows down to the shadow of the memory, my eyes fall closed in an attempt to gather my scattered thoughts.

Zoe came home—that much I know for certain. I know in my heart that she was coming home to me. And then, she heard the accusations flying.

None from me, though.

I can’t be sure how much she heard, but it's abundantly clear what she didn’t hear. I was so busy stopping myself from finding out if I could throw a punch without breaking my fingers that I didn’t have the energy to focus on anything else—like a simple hell no. An obvious denial.

No wonder she assumed I blamed her, too. No wonder she left.

She probably jumped to all sorts of other assumptions, too—all of them wrong. But with time and space, her mind will settle, and she'll realize all the things her brain told her were wrong. She has to.

And if she doesn’t, I'll tell her. I'll show her. I will prove it to her by any means necessary. We will yell and fight until she gets it into her thick, beautiful skull that I will never leave her or let her leave me.

My fingers stumble against themselves as they dial the number they know by heart. But the voice that answers lacks the raspiness that always warms my skin. It lacks the accent and the sarcasm and all the things that make it my favorite sound.

I plow my fingers through my hair, pulling at the strands with a frustrated huff like that will help me think faster, think better.

With her gone, so is my sanity. I’m reduced to desperation and determination to get her back.

Refusing to give in to defeat, I thumb the digits once more. Once more, the mechanical voice grates on my pounding ears.

Angry knuckles whiten as I pull my arm back. At the last second, my body is smarter than my despair, and my fingers uncurl to let the phone fall with a clatter against the marble. It lights up, illuminating the otherwise dark house.

A crack splits the screen in half.

23:11.

Dozens of new messages, dozens of missed calls. None of them from her.

The dial tone keeps me company through the hours as they drag like forty days in the dry desert without a single drop of water.

Because time is an illusion.

It's an illusion when it feels like I’ve known Zoe my entire life and not nearly long enough. Like my life didn't start until the day I met her. Like I didn’t truly know myself until I knew her.

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